


Quarter till

by Tashilover



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Time Travel, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 20:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1791901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Martin went to sleep, he was thirty-six. When he woke up, he was sixteen.</p><p> </p><p>A time travel fic. Based off a prompt in the CP meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For years Martin had complained as the oldest, he should be able to get his own room. Up until he moved out at the age of twenty, he shared a room with Simon, while Caitlin got her own. "It's because Caitlin is a girl," his dad told him when Martin complained for the twentieth millionth time. "She needs her privacy more than you two."

Martin didn't get it, not until he was seventeen and accidentally walked in on Caitlin changing her sanitary pad in the bathroom one day. After that, he stopped complaining. He also stopped talking to Caitlin for nearly a month, and she would mock him by throwing unopened tampon packets at his head.

Martin's bed had a distinct shape to it. His parents couldn't afford a new mattress for him so his bed took molded to his body after a few years. It dipped at his shoulders, curved awkwardly around his back, sloped down at his buttocks, and the rest laid perfectly straight for his legs and feet. Martin thought his parents would've gotten rid of it after he left for college, but no. When he came back to visit during Christmas, the mattress was there.

As annoying as it was, it was a familiar shape. Whenever he slept back on his old mattress, he felt like he was home again.

Martin shifted, his body remembering how it was shaped to him. There was a spring loose on the right side and if he pressed too much weight there, it was going to jab him. So he wiggled back, placing his arse back in its proper place where the slope was, sighed and tried to back to sleep.

Then he remembered his parents had gotten rid of the mattress after Martin moved into his first flat.

He sat up, expecting the dream he must've been having to dissipate and remind him that he was indeed, still in Fitton. He wasn't in Fitton.

He was in his old room. In his old bed, the bed that was thrown out over ten years ago. There were posters on his wall, posters he had gotten rid of cause they were faded and ripped and he didn't want them anymore. This was his room. Simon's bed was right there, on the other side.

Martin blinked at the weirdly detailed dream his brain was giving him. Even if Martin did come back to his old house to visit, his room wasn't there anymore, his mother had changed it to a sewing room.

He pushed back his blankets (his Star Wars blankets, for god's sake. He was such a fucking nerd) and stood up. It was so surreal to be staring at something he hasn't touched in over ten years. It was so nostalgic, Martin could feel the pings of tears gathering at the side of his eyes. He suppressed them. He wasn't about to cry over his old room, no way.

The detail of this dream was insane. Not only was he surprised his subconscious remembered how his room was arranged, it even remembered how Simon's side of the room was arranged. The dream even supplied Simon's old goldfish, Romeo and Mickey, swimming silently in their tiny blue aquarium on his desk.

There was a knock at the door.

The door opened before Martin had a chance to ask who it was. He thought it would be dream-Simon. Maybe it would be Douglas or Arthur or someone just as strange in this scenario. It wasn't Simon or Douglas.

It was his dad. "Martin, are you up yet?"

Martin felt his mouth go dry. It had been five years since his father's death, and Martin wasn't even there when he died. He had missed his father's last moments by a couple of hours and had always felt guilty for not getting there in time. "Dad..."

Julien Crieff blinked at Martin's reaction. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

"Dad..." Martin said again. His father was younger here, his wrinkles less developed, his head still full of hair. Martin didn't care this was a dream. He knew as soon as he woke up his dad was still dead, but at the moment, tears spilt out of his eyes and ran freely down his cheeks. "Dad!"

"Martin-"

Martin took two steps forward, and fiercely hugged his father, burying his face into his chest. "Dad..." Martin sobbed. "Dad..."

"Martin? Martin, what's wrong? What's the matter? C'mon, buddy, talk to me..."


	2. Chapter 2

Embarrassingly it took a long time for the crying to stop. Martin should be enjoying his dad's company, not cry like a child throughout the whole dream. "I'm fine..." Martin said, trying to stop. "I'm okay."

He told his dad he suffered a nightmare. Julien didn't look so convinced. "Are you sure?" He said.

"Yeah," Martin sniffed. "I'm sure. Sorry I cried over your shirt."

Julien looked down at his wet shirt. "Meh. I can change. Go wash your face. Your mom is making Belgium Waffles."

"In Belgium they're just called waffles," Martin said to his dad's retreating back, prompting a laugh out of him. Arthur made this joke every time they had waffles.

Martin rubbed his sore eyes and walked to the shared bathroom of the house. Cailtin had already taken her shower and the whole bathroom smelled like her strawberry shampoo. The smell alone brought back countless memories of Martin's childhood. He was surprised he could remember so much.

Once inside, Martin locked the door. The mirror was misty, and after a moment of hesitation, he wiped off the condensation.

Staring back at him was sixteen year old Martin.

Jesus _fuck_ , he looked so young. Instead of the sharp angles he was so used to, his face was still _fat_. His freckles were a lot more prominent, his acne -annoyingly- was more evident as well, dotting his jaw and hairline.

Was... was this really all a dream? Never in his life has his dreams ever been so detailed, so real before. What could he do to prove he was asleep?

He was trying to remember what he read about dreams. That you couldn't read in them or something? He looked around the bathroom, noticing one of Simon's comic books on the floor. He picked it up and turned to a random page.

Batman was talking to Superman. " _If I had a three days I still wouldn't be able to list all the things wrong with that statement."_

Martin placed the comic book down. He stared at himself in the mirror, his eyes large and horrified.

 

 

 

 

 

Martin was pretty sure he didn't take a DeLorean back to his flat. No Tardis' were involved, no Time-Turners, no random tears in the space-time continuum. So how the bloody hell did this happen?

Martin washed his face. He tried to brush his teeth, but he didn't know which toothbrush was his. He assumed the pink one was Caitlin's, but there a blue one and a purple one. Fuck it, Martin was not going to risk brushing his teeth with something that was twenty years old in his mind. He rinsed out his mouth, thinking he could buy a new toothbrush later on. Or wait till he woke up.

- _not a dream, reality, accept this is reality_ -

He had to be careful not to let himself slip too far. Already he felt the beginnings of a panic attack sneaking up on him. If this was real, he certainly should avoid sending himself to a hospital for insane ramblings.

God, what year was it? Did he have school today? Please don't let him have school today.

Downstairs was his mum. Caitlin and Simon. His _dad_. Could he really go through this without panicking?

Taking a breath to steady himself, Martin padded down the familiar steps of his childhood home to go the table where his family sat for breakfast. Though he tried to prepare himself, the sight of all them still stole his breath away.

He'd forgotten Caitlin had braces at this age. And glasses. As soon as she was able, Caitlin got laser corrective surgery. Martin mentally giggled at her. What a nerd.

Forget Martin's baby fat, _Simon_ was just plain fat. He never really lost the weight in his adulthood, but as a child, it was more obvious on his small, thin frame. It never really bothered him, or so he said.

His mum still kept her auburn hair. She would dye it in a few years when it started slowly greying. She has yet to start wearing glasses too. That wouldn't happen for another... what? Ten years?

Julien glanced up from the newspaper to look at Martin. "You alright there, Martin?"

Martin smiled happily at his family. He swallowed back a sob. "I'm fine," he said.

 

 

 

 

 

Breakfast was... interesting. Though his mother was not an awful cook, Martin has actually had genuine Belgium Waffles, _in_ Belgium. Eating the made-from-a-box mixture was a lot like eating glue. Martin could only eat one, forcing himself to swallow each bite.

It was summer, if the heat was anything to go by. At least that meant Martin didn't have classes and homework to do. He didn't know what would happen if he was forced into a classroom and not remember the teachers' names, his fellow students, or whatever he was supposed to be studying the previous night.

Wouldn't that be a hoot? Would his twenty years experience make him the smartest kid in class?

"Martin," his mother said. "I want you clean out the basement today. I think the mice made a nest in there again."

"Okay."

"Okay?" His dad echoed. "Just like that? No complaining, no whining?"

Martin blinked. Oh right, he was sixteen again. He was suppose to be an ungrateful, whiny little brat. "I grew up. So sue me."

"Suck up," Simon said with his mouth full of toast.

"You can help him too, Simon."

"AW!"

 

 

 

 

 

Now this Martin remembered. After his dad died, his mum wanted to get rid of some of the stuff in the basement so she wouldn't have to deal with it later on. It took hours to sort through, deciding what should go, what should stay, and what the kids could divide among themselves. The fighting was endless. Martin still maintained he did most of the work while Simon and Caitlin dawdled.

Simon was grumbling to himself as he moved boxes out of the way, looking for the mice nest that was supposedly down here. "If we find it, you're cleaning it out," he declared loudly. "I did it last time."

Martin was a little annoyed by his snarky attitude but did not argue. "Fine," he said. "But if you're going to be like this, then piss off. I would rather do this alone."

"Works for me," Simon said, dropping his hands. "I'll tell dad you said so."

Martin kept his head down so Simon wouldn't see the way his face crumpled at that. Was he going to cry like a child every time his dad was mentioned? He kept his head averted until he heard Simon's footsteps leave the basement. Once he was gone, Martin sighed tiredly and scrubbed at his face with his hands.

What was he going to do? There was no way he was going to be able to keep up the facade of being sixteen again. There was no way he could react so calmly around his dad or around other people. Already his dad was looking upon him with suspicion and all Martin did was _agree to clean the basement._ He needed help. He needed-

Douglas.


	3. Chapter 3

"Martin? I thought you were cleaning the basement."

"I took a break. Where's the phone book?"

His mum pointed. "By the phone."

There were three phone books, each one at least four inches thick. Martin scowled at the sight of them, knowing he was spoiled by the technologies of the future. No more internet, no more smart phones, no more google or google earth. Finding Douglas was going to take a lot more work than simply typing in a name and seeing what pops up.

Martin dragged over the individual person phone book to the table and flipped to the Rs.

There were over _fifty_ Douglas Richardsons listed.

Martin groaned. At least he could narrow the list down by eliminating those who had middle names, but that still gave Martin at least forty people who were not his Douglas. Martin made sure his mother wasn't looking when he ripped out the page containing the phone numbers and addresses.

He was about to put the book away when he had a thought. Opening it again, he went straight to the Ks. Lo and behold, there was only one Carolyn Knapp-Shappey listed. She had to be in her late thirties right now. And Arthur? Shit, Arthur was eleven in this time.

They also lived in London in the richest part of town, so that was one option Martin couldn't take. Carolyn was still married to Gordon then. Martin considered not taking the addresses, then ripped it out too, folding both papers and shoving them into his pocket.

 

 

 

 

 

While Martin cleaned, he thought. What if he wasn't the only one who was sent back into time, what if Douglas and Carolyn were too? Were they looking for him?

But what if they weren't like him? What if they didn't know who he was, didn't care, didn't want to know, and would slam the door in his face if he tried to talk to them?

A few times Martin had to stop and grasp his head, willing himself not to think too hard. He didn't know if he was putting off the inevitable panic attack and did his best to simply focus on the task at hand: cleaning out the basement.

_What if he could stop 9/11?_

At that thought Martin gasped and fell to the ground. Suddenly dozens of ideas and situations flooded his brain, reminding him of every single major even that happened (was going to happen) in the last twenty years. He shook as the possibility of changing the world dawned upon him, and most of it would need was a five minute phone call.

Martin tried to calm himself. How was he expected to save the world if he didn't know how to keep his _dad_ from dying? His dad _hated_ doctors with such a fiery passion, by the time Wendy convinced him to go to the hospital, it was too late to help him. That was going to be a great conversation: _Hey, dad, I think you need to get your prostate checked._

Martin was glad to be alone down in the basement. He didn't need Simon to see him hyperventilating over his existential crisis. It took him a long time to calm down, to push those ideas out of the way. If, IF he could stop his dad from dying, he would consider everything else.

With that goal in mind, Martin took a deep breath. He held it for ten seconds. He let it out slowly through his nose. It was a breathing technique he used right before he took his CPL to calm himself.

He was going have to take his CPL again.

FUCK.

 

 

 

 

 

"Well, don't you look lovely."

If Martin looked the way he felt, then he looked like shite. He missed the body he had in his thirties, the body he developed from moving boxes and furniture into his van. He was quite proud of his strength, of the muscles on his arms and back. At sixteen, he was still such a skinny little boy, and moving the small boxes around in the basement took more energy than he realized.

He was tired, sore, and covered in dust. His eyes were red and itchy from repeated efforts to keep from crying. He felt miserable.

"Did you remove the mice nest?" His dad asked.

"Yes."

"Good job. And considering Simon abandoned you, I think you deserve a little reward. Hmm?"

His dad pulled out a twenty pound note from his purse. He held it out for Martin to take.

There was no getting around it. "Dad, I think you should set up an appointment to get your prostate checked."

Immediately Martin wished he had his camera phone on him. The look was his dad's face was _priceless_.

The hand holding the money dropped. "What?"

Martin had the last two hours to come up with a reasonable explanation to get his dad to make an appointment. He didn't think of one. This was why Martin needed Douglas, Douglas could come up with anything. "Over a hundred thousand men will die each year from prostate cancer-"

"You think I have _cancer_?"

"I think you should get yourself checked out to be ensure you don't get cancer-"

"What the hell is this coming from, Martin?"

What could Martin say? He couldn't claim he heard it from his teachers or that a close family or friend died from it. For a second Martin hanged in limbo, mouth agape, unable to speak. Then, quite miraculously, something popped into his head. "That's what I dreamt last night..."

Immediately Julien's face softened. "Aw, haven't you woken up yet? I'm fine, Martin. Stop acting so dramatic."

"No, dad, I'm serious. You should go get yourself checked out now that you're over thirty-five."

"I hate doctors and I'm not going. You can't make me."

"You could die before you hit sixty-"

"Martin, that's enough!" His dad exclaimed, all humour and lightheartedness gone from his voice. "Now, it was just a dream and that's all there is to it. You're too damn old for this."

Now that hurt. Martin knew deep down his father was just frustrated and didn't mean anything he said. But like all children, no matter how old they get, they will always _feel_ like children in the presence of their parents. Martin willowed under his father's voice, and his conviction went out the window.

"Go take a shower," his dad said, his tone calmer but no less angry. He slapped the twenty down on the table. "And... and... go find a _girlfriend_ or something."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Bullying and gross stuff.

"Hello?"

Martin hung up. With a sigh, he crossed out the sixteenth Douglas Richardson on the phone page he ripped out. Eyes on the next number, Martin dialed it in and waited for someone on the other side to answer.

"Hello?" It was a woman on the other line.

"Yes, hello, may I speak to Douglas Richardson?"

"May I ask who is calling?"

"I'm doing an assignment on pilots and I wonder if he would be willing to answer a few questions."

"An assignment? It's _summer_. Besides, Douglas isn't a pilot-"

Martin hung up. He crossed out the seventeenth name.

It was an inefficient, tedious way to find Douglas, but unfortunately it was the only way. For all Martin knew, Douglas wasn't even registered in the phone book and all Martin was doing was racking up fines for his parents to pay.

"Hello?" The man on the phone had a Scottish accent.

"May I speak to Douglas Richardson?"

"This is him."

Martin hung up. His neck was getting a crick from where he was bending over and reading off the numbers.

"Martin!" His mum yelled up from the stairs. "Are you done with the phone yet? I want to talk to your Aunt Midge!"

"In a minute!" Martin yelled back, his attention on the phone numbers. He crossed out the twentieth name.

"Hurry it up, then!"

Martin glanced over to the other side of the room, to where Simon's little piggy bank sat. It was this ugly, pale-pink, ceramic thing he made when he was nine for art class. Martin supposed if he couldn't finish the calls here at the house, he could steal Simon's bank, go find a phone booth and finish them there.

Doing so was risking getting pounded by Simon later.

Then finally, on the twenty-sixth call, a familiar voice answered. "Hello?"

Martin blinked at the familiar voice. He sounded younger, much younger here. "Douglas Richardson?"

"This is he. May I ask who is calling?"

Martin studied the address. Douglas only lived about a half hour away by car. Now if Martin caught the twelve o'clock bus and took his bike with him-

"Hello?" Douglas said on the other line. "Did you die?"

"This is Martin Crieff. Do you know who I am?"

Maybe Douglas also traveled into the past. If he did, then there was a possibility Carolyn and Arthur did too.

"Sorry, lad," Douglas said. "Do you have the right number?"

Martin hung up. It didn't matter if Douglas knew him or not, he was still Martin's best bet to get back to the future. Until another opportunity popped up, this was the plan. Tomorrow, he was going to see young Douglas Richardson.

 

 

 

 

 

Martin was able to find an extra, fresh toothbrush for him to use. When he pulled out his pyjamas, he was nearly overwhelmed by his own embarrassment. Not only did he own Star Wars sheets, he had Star Wars pyjamas. He didn't even _like_ Star Wars that much in his thirties, where were these coming from?

At least he didn't have Simon's pyjamas. He had little cowboy designs on them. Nerd.

"You've been acting funny all day."

Martin was settling into bed, letting his body to find those familiar dips and curves of his unique mattress. He lifted up his head to Simon. "What?"

"I said, you've been acting funny," Simon repeated. He sat down on his own bed, his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Martin. "What gives? Are you on your period or something?"

"That's sexist," Martin hissed.

"See, that, that right there, since when did you turn into such a _dad_?"

"Go to sleep, Simon." Martin turned over to go to sleep, hoping maybe in his sleep he'll be sent back, and all of this would be some strange dream.

Would... would it be really so bad to relive his teen years and his twenties again? Now that he knew what was coming, now that he knew a great deal of answers to the hardest parts of his own life, would things be better? He wouldn't have to retake his CPL seven times again, he should be able to pass it on the first try now. He also would finally be able to show his dad his accomplishments. Maybe get a job where he was actually respected.

But he would also never meet Carolyn or Arthur. Never meet Douglas, who taught him more than any of his teachers ever taught him. He would never become a captain, because a pilot as young as he would only be given a First Officer job. He would also have to lie for years of how he knew so much.

Also, no girlfriends. Though Martin was sixteen again, the thought of dating a sixteen old girl made him shudder. That... he wasn't going to touch those thoughts with a ten foot pole.

Besides, he was done with university. He was _done_ , he didn't want to relive his past again, it sounded _exhausting_.

Martin shook his head. Tomorrow. Push those thoughts away until tomorrow. Breathing in and out, Martin did his best to calm his mind, and slowly drifted off to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

He was lost.

Now Martin wished he had his GPS. He wished he had his phone. For goodness sake's, he was a pilot. He has flown all around the world, why was finding a single house in a simple neighbourhood such a hard thing to do?

"This is pathetic," Martin moaned into the handlebars of his bike.

Already he has spent nearly two hours on his bike, searching endlessly. The water he brought with him was gone, his arse was sore from sitting on the seat for so long, and he was drenched in sweat. He probably stunk too.

At least he had the twenty quid in his back pocket. If he crossed a shop, he could buy himself a bottle of water. Maybe some ice cream. Both sounded really good right now.

 _IF_. He had yet to pass a shop or anything resembling a shop in over an hour. He was getting desperate. Parking his bike, Martin took his empty water bottle and walked up to the front door of the nearest house. Maybe some nice person would be willing to refill his bottle for him. He knocked on the door.

He waited, and heard someone approaching. The door opened, and suddenly Martin felt like someone just punched him in the guts.

"Crieff!" Jeremy Flunure said out loud, blinking in surprise. A slow, sadistic grin spread across his face. "What the fuck are you doing at my house, you little shite?"

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Martin had forgotten about Jeremy. The boy harassed Martin through most of his school years, making fun of him, stealing from him, and though Martin was unable to prove it, he was sure it was Jeremy who pushed him down the stairs at school during their final year, dislocating his shoulder. Once they graduated, Martin thought he would never have to see this little spawn of Satan ever again.

"Nothing, nothing," Martin said, backing away. "I'm going."

"No, don't go. What, what is it?"

"I... I just want some water. I ran out."

"Water?" Jeremy said. He glanced down at Martin's empty bottle.

For a solitary second, Martin thought for once, for _once_ in Jeremy's pathetic life, he would engage in a simple act of kindness. There was no way Jeremy could be arsehole 24/7.

Jeremy's hand struck out, slapping the empty water bottle out of Martin's hand. "What if I spat in your mouth, Crieff? Would you feel thirsty, then?"

 _Jesus Christ_. The kid was more of a psychopath than Martin realized. Jeremy advanced on him, and Martin ran back to his bike, desperate to get away as fast as he could. As he pulled up the kickstand, two hands shoved him across the shoulders, tripping him over.

Martin crashed on top of his bike, his exposed knees striking into the chains, slashing his skin like it was butter. He was able to throw one hand out, slapping it against the asphalt. Tiny stones and bits of broken glass dug into his palm as he struggled to unhook his knees from the chains.

Spot of blood rained on the ground.

He tried his best to ignore it, to forget the stinging pain, to focus on getting up and getting away, when Jeremy suddenly grabbed him by the back of his shirt, hauled him up, and threw him to the side like he was a rag doll.

Fuck the bike. Just run, get the hell out of here.

"Hey, hey, don't run, Crieff," Jeremy cooed, pushing Martin back down. He shoved Martin onto his back, and sat down on his stomach, crushing him. "You want water? I'll give you water."

He caught Martin's flailing arms, gripped them painfully and held them down with one hand, squashing his wrists across Martin's chest like a vampire. With the other hand, Jeremy grabbed Martin's face, painfully gripping hard enough to leave bruises. "Open your mouth. Open your mouth..."

He was unable to to force Martin's jaw open, but he exposed Martin's teeth by pushing the lips together. Once Jeremy managed to do that, he made a _disgusting_ noise in the back of his throat, gathering spit.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?"

A large hand clamped down on Jeremy's shirt, violently jerking him off of Martin. He kept pulling Jeremy back, allowing Martin to curl in on himself, coughing and gasping for air.

"D-Douglas..." Martin groaned, barely audible.

"You sick little bastard," Douglas spat, holding a struggling Jeremy easily with one hand. "What the bloody hell is your problem?"

Jeremy was like a goddamn cat because he lifted his arms, and slipped out of his own shirt. Topless, Jeremy ran down the street, cackling madly, hodling up two middle fingers as he did so. He didn't care he left his own front door wide open.

Douglas tossed down the white shirt with a huff. He looked down at Martin. "You okay there, lad?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mild body horror.

He was not going to cry.

Despite the way he looked, the way he sounded, Martin was not actually a sixteen year old boy. Martin barely remembered what it was like to be a teenager, let alone act like one. He was nearly _forty_ for god's sake, a captain of an aeroplane, and damn him to hell if he shed any tears.

"Ow-ouch..."

"I know it stings," Douglas said, pulling back. In one hand he held a bottle of rubbing alcohol. In the other, a soaked cotton ball, lightly stained by Martin's blood. "I've done this to myself plenty of times. Your knees will be fine. Knees were meant to be scraped. It's your hand I'm worried about. Let me see."

Martin had been dreading to look at his left hand, the one he threw out to keep himself from crashing his whole weight on top of his bike. He uncurled it, and hissed at the sight of it.

His whole palm was red, lightly bleeding, scrapped to hell and ugly. Tiny bits of stone were embedded into his skin, most of which he could pick off by lightly brushing them away. But one stone had managed to actually _sink_ _under_ his skin, through an open wound, and now there was a tiny bump in the middle of his palm.

"Not going to lie," Douglas said sympathetically. "This will be gross."

Martin bit his lip as he saw what Douglas was about to do. Douglas held Martin's hand steady, and using his thumb, pressed down on Martin's palm, slowly pushing the stone out. Martin cried out, resisting the urge to wrench his arm back, watching in disgusted horror as the stone peeked out of his skin.

The sight of it was worse than the pain.

The tiny black stone was covered in blood, and Douglas tipped Martin's hand over a small bin, throwing it away. "Now that's gone," Douglas said. "I can clean this properly."

With a fresh soaked cotton ball, he dapped Martin's palm lightly. When a droplet of alcohol slid off the cotton ball and rolled right into the open wound, Martin gritted his teeth and groaned. A single tear leaked out of his eye.

"Sorry," Douglas said. "I know how much this must hurt."

He was such a father. More often he was this to Arthur than he was to Martin, displaying heavenly-like patience when Arthur said or did something silly. The day after they rescued Gerti from Gordon, Douglas took Arthur to see the latest Tom Cruise film. They spent the whole day together, if Arthur's Facebook page said anything about it. (And it did, at great lengths.)

Because of their gap in authority, Douglas was a lot more reserved with Martin. He wouldn't take Martin to see a film or go out for lunch on their off days. He did, however, take Martin to the hospital when Martin got concussed after slipping on an ice patch. He stayed with Martin during the whole two hour duration, then drove him home. Douglas said he did it so Martin could owe him a _huge_ favour.

Three years later and Douglas had yet to cash in on that 'favour.'

The situation was different here. Martin wasn't a neary forty year old captain of a commericial aeroplane. He was smaller here, thinner, his face so young he was sure he could pass himself off as fourteen instead of sixteen. To see Douglas be so gentle with him, not teasing, not making snarky remarks, was strange.

Douglas finished wrapping Martin's hand with gauze. "So," he said. "You want to tell me who that kid was?"

"Doesn't matter," Martin said, flexing his hand around the gauze. "Once I graduate I'm never going to see him again."

"That kid is a psychopath. You should at least leave a tip to the police saying he likes to make suits out of human skin. At least that way, the police will have him on file for future suspects."

Actually, that wasn't a bad idea. Martin wouldn't be surprised if Jeremy had some poor individual in a deep, dark hole, forcing them to put lotion on everyday. " _Or else it gets the hose again,_ " Martin mumbled.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Douglas hummed. He got up to place away the home medical supplies. "Tell me then," he said, going to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. "Why did you call me yesterday?"

"I-" No, there was no point in lying. "Yes, that was me."

"See, I knew I recognized your voice. Okay, so why did you call me, then hung up on me? And then... what? Did you track me down?" A thought popped into his head. "Are you a stalker?"

"No, I'm not. It's... well, it's complicated."

"Right now, I'm considering throwing you out of my house, injured or not. So un-complicate it for me, you weird stalker boy."

"My name is Martin Crieff and I am from the future."

Douglas stared at him. "Are you drunk?"

"I am thirty-six years old. I am a pilot- a captain, actually- at a company called MJN Air. You're my First Officer, and we've worked together for five years. I don't know why or how, but I woke up like this yesterday. Now I'm trying to find my way home, back to my time and my old body, and I need your help to do that."

Douglas kept staring. "You are drunk."

"I can prove it."

"I'm sure you can," Douglas giggled in disbelief. He walked to a cabinet and pulled out a glass. "So I'm _your_ First Officer? Wow, what the hell did I do to have some young kid like you as my captain?"

Douglas pulled out a small clear bottle containing amber-coloured liquid. "I hope you don't mind if I pour myself a small drink. Something tells me I might need it."

Martin choked on his own spit. He'd forgotten Douglas used to drink. After spending so many years watching Douglas carefully turn down drinks, avoided bars and pubs, outright _lied_ to his friends at the airfield about his drinking; sitting there while Douglas poured himself a generous portion was a shock to the system.

"Please, don't," Martin heard himself say.

"Why not?" Douglas was already lifting the glass to his lips.

"Because you're an alcoholic."

Douglas slammed the glass down on the counter, spilling some of the amber liquid over his knuckles. " _WHAT_ ," he growled.

That was stupid thing to say. While it was no secret why Douglas didn't drink, it was something they didn't talked about. Douglas never said and Martin never asked.

"Your name is Douglas Richardson," Martin said quickly before Douglas decided to kill him. "In my time you're fifty-four years old. You told me you've been sober for over ten years. You've been married three times-"

"I've had _one_ wife in my life!"

"-you have two daughters-"

"My wife is not even pregnant!"

This was going terrible. "Douglas, please! I am from the future, and I need your help!"

"You know what?" Douglas said, grabbing a towel and wiping his hand furiously. "I've helped you enough. Get out of my house."

"I-"

What could Martin say to convince him? Oh, this was such a poorly executed plan. Martin was so fastidious when it came to flight routes, his check-lists, and everything else in between, but how could he be so _lazy_ trying to think up of way to convince Douglas?

"If you have a girl, you want to name her Verity, after your mother."

Douglas went deadly still. "What did you say?"

It wasn't often Douglas shared personal information like that. He spent so much time trying to show how perfect and suave he was, refusing to reveal anything vulnerable about himself. There were moments though, when the flights were long and they were alone, Douglas allowed himself to be open.

"You told me the story once," Martin said quickly, but quietly as if speaking to a scared animal. "Your mother single-handily raised you and your brothers. She took on three jobs, breaking her back every day to ensure you and your siblings never went cold, hungry or scared. You said you remember how dry her hands were from the constant washing, how she had a bit of hump because she bent over every day. She died in a traffic accident when you were twenty-five. Verity, that was her name. It means Truth. And if you ever had a daughter, you told me, you wanted to name her after your mother."

Douglas took a step back. He was struggling to keep himself from crying as his eyes turned red and wet. " _Get out._ "

Martin felt his heart drop. "Douglas-"

" _I don't know who you are or what you're after, but get out of my house. Now. Don't you dare come back."_


	6. Chapter 6

The large open field wasn't really a park, but more of a giant unclaimed space people used as their dog's toilet. For the past ten minutes Martin already saw at least five people walk by with their pets, allowing them to defecate wherever they so please. It was quite the proper place to be, as Martin felt like shite.

That was the dumbest thing he has ever done. It was number one on his dumb list. Number two was when he agreed to try Arthur's green eggs and ham for Dr. Suess' birthday. (Martin later found out Dr. Suess' birthday wasn't for another month and the green wasn't created by food dye.)

Martin took refuge under the shade of the only tree in the whole field, wallowing in self-pity. Now what was he suppose to do? If he couldn't get Douglas to believe him, then how was Martin going to convince his dad to go the doctors? There was no plan B.

Even worse, how was this going to affect the future? There was a chance Douglas could forget all of this down the road and nothing would change. Or Douglas would remember everything and the future could be filled with monkeys.

Martin should have handled that better. That was so stupid. _You're an alcoholic._ Maybe Martin should've thrown in tidbits about Douglas' failure as a medical student. Really dig it in.

Martin pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his head in his arms, groaning. As much as he loved his dad, he didn't want to be here anymore. Nothing made sense, it felt _wrong_ to be here. He wanted to go home.

He heard shuffling, like someone stepping on the grass. He ignored the noise, thinking it was another owner with his dog. The shuffling noises got closer, and wearily Martin lifted his head to see.

Shirt-less Jeremy was standing right in front of him.

"Aw, _fuck!"_ Martin cried out, scrambling to get up and run. He was too slow on the draw and with a vicious laugh, Jeremy grabbed him by his shirt. Martin was nothing more than a limp doll in his hands, a tiny, useless toy to use and abuse. Jeremy tossed Martin around like he weighed nothing, slamming him against the tree over and over, knocking the wind right out of him.

Douglas was right. Jeremy probably did have a skin-suit in his basement.

"Who was that old man, Crieff,?" Jeremy sneered, pressing his weight on Martin, making him hiss in pain. "Your fuck buddy?"

"You're sick," Martin groaned, feeling ill. "You're insane."

Jeremy's grin grew, as if Martin just gave him a _compliment_.

Sick mother fucker. Gritting his teeth, Martin braced himself for what he was about to do next, and rammed his head forward, striking Jeremy across the mouth. Martin could hear the bone clacking together.

Jeremy howled in pain, releasing his hold and stumbled back, clutching his mouth. Martin was able to see a streak of blood dribbling out of the boy's lip, then turned and started climbing the tree as fast as he could.

"Get back here you little fuck!"

Hands brushed his trainers, but Martin was already too high to reach. He kept climbing, pushing himself higher and higher, refusing to stop. He ignored the pain, pushing it to the back of his mind to deal with later. At least this time he wasn't tired from holding a dead sheep.

Down below, Jeremy didn't even bother to climb the climb the tree, which was a relief. Martin wouldn't put it past Jeremy to throw Martin down, like the useless rotten egg of the nest.

"You can't stay up there forever, Crieff!"

"Yes, I can!"

Martin bit down on his lips. Don't taunt the crazy man. He might just put you on his hit list.

For a long minute it looked like Jeremy wasn't going anywhere. He paced around the tree, occasionally grabbing the sides, trying to determine if he could climb. He kept scowling, tossing anxious looks behind him. Someone was bound to walk past and see them.

With a huff, he stepped back. Martin thought he won.

Jeremy went to Martin's bike.

That bike had been Martin's birthday present when he turned fourteen. He eventually sold it when he turned seventeen, for a bigger, newer model. Still, he had good memories of that bike. Watching Jeremy savagely kick the _crap_ out of it made him flinch with every blow.

Jeremy ripped off the handle bars. He dismantled the chain. He removed the wheels, then broke the rims. He pulled off the brakes, scattering the pieces all around him, and for his final act, he tossed the seat into a huge pile of dog poop. He even went so far as to rub it around, smearing it in.

He seemed satisfied with that. With a happy sigh, he gestured to Martin goodbye, then walked away, humming to himself.

Martin didn't leave the tree for another ten minutes, waiting to see if Jeremy dared to come back. He didn't. Slowly, carefully, Martin climbed down the tree, wincing as his bandaged hand pressed painfully against the bark. It started bleeding again.

His feet touched the ground. All around him were the remains of his bike, broken beyond repair.

He rubbed his forehead and moaned. "Can this day get any worse?"

Above, what little sun there was disappeared behind black clouds, and it started to rain.

"That was a rhetorical question!"


	7. Chapter 7

It didn't rain hard, thankfully. Just enough for Martin's skin and hair to be soaked. His clothes stuck to his skin, making him squirm uncomfortably. It felt gross.

At one point he reached around to his back pocket, fearing the rain would ruin his smart phone, then remembered those weren't invented yet. All he had in his pocket was the small change he planned to use for the bus ride home.

The bus he missed because he spent it hiding in a tree. The next bus wouldn't come by for another hour.

Stupidly, he only brought enough money for the bus. He didn't bring enough to get something to eat. Last time he ate was over four hours ago and his stomach was painfully empty. He was going have to deal.

Before he left home he told his parents he was going to hang out with a friend, though he didn't specify whom. Martin couldn't remember the names of his friends during this time- he didn't have many. But now that had been quite a few hours, Martin was sure his parents were getting worried about where he was.

He had enough coins for a phone call. Maybe he should call his dad to pick him up. Oh man, that was going to be an awkward conversation. Just the thought of it had Martin cringing. He would rather walk.

He briefly remembered the way home, baring a few twists and turns he may have to reevaluate. With a defeated sigh, he started walking. Wetness slowly seeped through his trainers, and within a few minutes he knew they were going to soak his socks thoroughly.

He tried not to look like a drowned rat, he really didn't. After with that affair with Jeremy, he didn't want to draw more attention to himself. Already the few cars who passed him slowed enough for the driver to get a good look at him. None of them actually _stopped_ though. Martin didn't know what to make of that. He didn't want to hitchhike.

Fifteen minutes later, his stomach was growling so loudly, it overpowered the sound of the rain. It overpowered the sound of the squish-squash noises of his sloppy trainers.

From behind he heard another car approach and he ignored this one too, thinking it would simply drive past. Except this one slowed right next to him and stopped. The window rolled down.

"Hey, kid, would you like a ride?"

For a startling second Martin thought he was being propositioned. His mouth dropped.

It was Carolyn.

Thirty-something year old Carolyn. She was leaning out from her car window, one hand on the driving wheel, waiting for his reply. Her hair was the colour of chestnuts, her skin devoid of all wrinkles, her face was thin, and even from this distance, Martin could see the big, fat diamond ring on her left hand.

Holy crap, Carolyn was a _babe_.

"Well?" She asked again, moving back as if she was ready to drive off.

"Yes, please!" Martin scrambled towards her. "Oh my gosh, thank you!"

Carolyn leaned over to the passenger side to undo the lock (damn it, that's right, automatic locks wouldn't be a standard issue for another five or six years) allowing Martin to climb in.

She wrinkled her nose at the state of him. "Hold on a moment," she said, grabbing a towel from the back seat. It was one of those kiddy towels, thin and cheap with cartoon characters on them. This one had the Muppets on it. She placed it down on the passenger side before letting Martin sit down.

Martin climbed in, casting a quick glance to the back seat. There was Arthur, ten years old, sleeping against the window. He was wearing a headset and listening to a tape player. Martin could barely hear the familiar song of _Hakuna Matata_ playing.

Arthur looked exactly the same as a child, but shorter.

"Don't you worry about waking my son," Carolyn said. "That boy could sleep through anything."

As Martin engaged his seat belt, he unintentionally said, "I know."

"You know?"

"Oh! Um... um... I just mean, I have a little sister... so, um... she can sleep through anything too. I mean, I understand."

"Okay... well now, where to?"

Martin told her.

"That's actually... wow, did you walk from all the way there?"

"I had my bike. It... got stolen."

"Really? Do you want me to take you to a police station?"

"No... I'd rather go home."

They drove in silence. Besides Arthur's muffled tape player, the only sounds to be heard were the engine, and the windshield wipers swiping back and forth. Martin's hands fidgeted in his lap, debating with himself if he should say something.

Your husband is a prick?

You're going to hire me one day to fly your plane?

Your son is going to unintentionally kill someone?

After what happened with Douglas, Martin wasn't sure if he had the confidence to do it right this time around. If he couldn't convince Douglas he was from the future, then there was no way he could convince Carolyn. Besides, he certainly didn't want to tick her off and have her throw him out of the car. Martin didn't want to walk in the rain anymore.

"I know it's not any of my business," Carolyn suddenly asked after ten minutes of complete silence from her. She pointed to his bloody bandages. "But you're not in any trouble, are you?"

Tell her. What have you got to lose? Tell her. Tell her, tell her, tell her, tell her, tell her.

"No," said Martin. "It's just a bad day."

"I see."

And that was it. Besides asking Martin to clarify the directions to his house, she said nothing further. She dropped him off right in front of his home. Martin quietly thanked her, unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car.

"Take care of yourself, kid," Carolyn said as a goodbye, then pulled away from the curb.

Martin watched her go. As the car drove down the street, he blinked in amusement when Arthur's head suddenly popped in view in the rear window. Right at the moment the car was about to turn down the street, Arthur sleepily looked back at him, smiled, and waved.

 

 

 

 

 

Martin's mother gasped at the sight of him. "Martin!" She nearly screamed, pulling him into the house. "What happened to you?"

She was checking him over, touching his bruises, cupping his face, staring wildly at his bloody hand, sputtering at every little thing. It was a little nice to be mothered, releshing the feel of her warm hands on his cold skin. That ended when his father came to see him.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" He demanded. "You've been gone for nearly six hours! What the fuck happened to you?"

Now this Martin wasn't in the mood for. He pushed past his mother, going up the stairs. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Don't you ignore me! Martin, get back here and tell us what happened!"

At the top of the stairs he saw Caitlin peeking out from her room, her mouth gaped open. "Did you get mugged?" She lisped through her braces.

Martin didn't have a better story to say. "Yes."

"Are you okay?"

Martin squeezed his fist. The sopping bandages felt disgusting and droplets of red water pattered to the floor. "I don't know." He trudged to his room, ignoring the her other questions.

He was moving on autopilot at this point. The room was thankfully empty. He tossed off his wet trainers to some corner, peeled off his wet socks and tossed them aside too. He gathered fresh clothes from his dresser, uncaring what he grabbed matched or not. He was mutely aware he had Star Wars boxers. (Seriously, he wasn't that huge of a fan! What the fuck!)

When he turned around, his dad had entered the room, closing the door behind him.

"Where's your bike?" He asked. He was a lot calmer than a minute ago.

"I don't know," Martin said dully. "I don't have it."

"Okay. I'm going to ask you a question and I want you to be honest with me."

Martin stiffened, suddenly realizing what he must look like, beaten, bruised, and bloody. Did his dad think he was...?

"Martin," he said. "Did you time travel?"


	8. Chapter 8

Martin had intended to take the quickest shower in history. A quick shampoo, a quick scrub, that's it. But as soon as the hot water cascaded down his sore, tired body, he groaned and stayed under the spray, refusing to move. He nearly fell asleep right then and there, relishing every drop. He didn't want to leave.

He eventually persuaded himself to wash, taking his time to lather his hair and body. Once he was done, he spent another few more long minutes under the hot water, then dragged himself out.

He dressed and went back to his room. His dad was sitting on his bed waiting for him with tea and... beer?

"I'm guessing you're old enough to drink this?" Julien asked, holding up the bottle.

"I am," said Martin. "But I am not in the mood. Tea is good."

Julien nodded and placed the beer off to the side. He handed over a cup of tea. "Alright. I'm ready to answer any questions you got for me."

Martin was really glad for that shower. It gave him time to think about what he wanted to say, instead of blurting it out like an idiot. He sipped his tea, then said, "Are we superheroes?"

Julien burst out laughing. "Oh! Oh, god no! It's... it's genetic."

"Time travel is _genetic_?"

"It's passed down from male to male. There's something in our DNA that allows us to bend the fabric of time. I did it, your grandfather did it. It was only a matter of time before you did it as well. Simon will too, one day. If he hasn't already."

This conversation was getting stupider and stupider by the second. "I don't..." Martin was getting frustrated. None of this was making sense. "What the fuck-"

"Language."

"I'm thirty-six years old!" Martin snapped at him. "I can fucking curse if I fucking want to!"

"Not in my house you don't."

"You're _dead_ , so who cares!"

Martin slapped a hand over his mouth.

Julien leaned back, his eyes wide in surprise. "Oh..." he said in dawning realization. "That's why you kept talking about prostate cancer. I... die from it, don't I?"

"Oh god... dad, dad, you can still prevent it. Go to the doctors, get yourself checked, and-"

"Martin, it doesn't matter-"

"Yes, it does matter! If you catch it early-"

"No, it doesn't matter. Because the moment you go back, we forget everything you did here."

Martin suddenly felt the urge to throw up. His stomach clenched sharply at his father's words as his brain struggled to make sense of what he said. "W-what? Nobody remembers? Nothing?"

"This conversation we're having, the actions you took to get here, will be wiped from history."

That... that didn't make any sense. Did that mean Martin could've gone out and _murder_ someone without worrying about the consequences? His conversation with Douglas, his interaction with Carolyn, meant nothing?

" _Then what's the goddamn point?_ " Martin yelled. "Why? Why? WHY?"

"Oh, son," Julien said sadly. He reached out and pulled Martin in close, wrapping his arms tight around him. "I don't know why. We can only travel once, so it's not as if we can experiment as to the reasons."

Martin gripped his dad's shirt, crying into his chest. So this whole trip was pointless. He spent this whole time arguing with himself, telling himself he had the power to change the goddamn world only to find out his actions had no meaning. What did that mean in the end? That he had no power to change his fate, that his life, his destiny, could not be shaped?

Martin has always wanted children. A boy and a girl, if possible. As he got older he thought perhaps about adopting, though that would have to be further down the lane as he didn't earn enough money to support a child.

Now that he knew his DNA could cause _time travel_ , Martin wasn't sure that was something he wanted to pass that on. God, _what if_ he'd already been visited by his son or grandson? What if he already had this conversation with them, telling them their existence had no impact on the universe in any way?

"I know how you feel," his dad said softly. His hand rubbed small warm circles on Martin's back. "When I traveled, I saw my sister again. I can't tell you how shocked I was to see her. So I knew, when you started crying at the sight of me yesterday, I knew. I'm sorry I didn't say something sooner. This whole thing feels like a dream, doesn't it?"

Martin pulled back, wiping furiously at his face. "How long does it last?" He croaked. "When do I go back?"

"Two, three days at most. Most likely what will happen when you go to bed tonight, you'll wake up back as your old self again."

"And here I thought I was stuck. I wanted to go home so badly again, back to my friends and my job-"

"Your job? What do you work as?"

Martin blinked up at him. "I... I'm a pilot."

"A pilot?" His dad started grinning widely. "I should've known. You've been talking about aeroplanes since you were a kid."

"I'm a Captain," Martin said, clearing his voice. Pride swelled in his chest. "Of an independently run airline. My First Officer's name is Douglas. In the beginning we used to be at each other's throats all the time because he's older than me, but now he's one of my best friends."

Julien refilled Martin's cup of tea, urging him to drink. "Tell me more."

 

 

 

 

 

 

They talked for hours after that. Martin told his father all his endeavours, all of his trips, the people he's met, the things he's learned. He told his father about Carolyn and Arthur, about Douglas and Herc. He told him about the seven tries to get his CPL, and though that was a horribly, embarrassing memory, Martin didn't stop talking.

"I'm so _proud_ of you, Martin," was the last thing he heard his father say as sleep pulled him down. Martin struggled to stay awake, to tell him more, but his body wouldn't let him. Martin went to sleep right there at the kitchen table, feeling his father's warm hand on his shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

Martin woke up hours later, back in his own bed, back in his own body. Simon was no longer there on the other side, his bed spread design was no longer Star Wars. He was in his attic, in Fitton, aged thirty-six.

He checked himself frantically, looking at his long fingers, feeling his shorter hair, touching his thin face. He looked for the scar he obtained last year when he accidentally burnt his arm on a candle. He was here, he was real.

For a scant second, he treated the last two days as a dream. Just a dream. He didn't time travel, he didn't see young Douglas or young Carolyn. Everything he went through was just his over worked imagniation.

Such bullshit.

He couldn't make himself believe that. It would've been easier to, but that felt like he was spitting in his dad's face. His dad. Who was dead again.

"Dad..." Martin sobbed into the darkness. He pulled his legs up, pressing his head against his knees. "Dad..."

 

 

 

 

 

Once the morning came, Martin immediately called his mother, asking her if she remembered a day when he came home wet and bleeding. She said no. Martin then called Simon and Caitlin, asked them if they remembered and both of them said no.

Martin checked his palms, searching for any signs of scars. His hands were clear.

So his dad was right. There was no evidence left behind except for Martin's own memories. Maybe he should get his blood tested, see if there was any abnormalities in it. He huffed when he thought of that. What was he going to tell them? And if they did find something, what would he do with that information?

He didn't know what to think. It did feel like a dream. Maybe he shouldn't be getting blood work, maybe he should go see a psychiatrist.

Martin almost didn't feel real. Neither here nor there, questioning his reality and time. It was a dangerous mind set to have, especially when he drove to work the next day, only having half of his attention on the road. When he got in, he didn't start on paperwork. Instead he slumped down at the table, unable to bring himself to care.

"Are you sick?" Carolyn asked.

Less than two days ago (twenty years ago) this woman had given a bleeding, wet teenager a ride home. She didn't ask for payment, she didn't demand clarification. How many drove past Martin that day and ignored him? Martin didn't ask help from her, she gave it freely.

"I'm fine," Martin said, trying to put on a smile. "It's just one of those days, you know."

She scrutinized him. Though her hair was now grey, her face heavy with wrinkles, those were the same brown eyes were as sharp and bright as they were two decades ago. It was amazing to see the comparison. "Well, I hope you're williing to put on your game face today. The client we're flying today is insanely rich. We must give him our best customer service. He asked for us personally."

"Oh... right, right." Martin straightened up, pushing away his dark thoughts. He could question his existence later. "Who are we flying?"

"He-" Carolyn was interrupted by someone knocking on the office door. "Ah, must be him. Blast it, where's Douglas? I send Arthur to look for him earlier. Stand up, Martin. Put on a smile."

As she went to answer the door, Martin did as he was told. He stood up, straightened his uniform and deftly put on his hat. He didn't smile, he didn't feel like it, but he hoped he looked professional enough to compensate.

Carolyn opened the door. "Good morning sir!"

Martin felt like the universe just punched him in the gut.

"Crieff!" Jeremy cried out happily, practically elbowing Carolyn out of the way to get to him. "I thought I saw your face on the company website! Good lord, how long has it been? Twenty years?"

He embraced Martin like an old chum, clapping him on the shoulders with a hearty shake. Except Jeremy's hands gripped him too tightly to be considered friendly. Martin resisted to the urge to hiss as Jeremy's fingers dug into his biceps. "I..."

Martin has flown enough rich clients to recognize the designer suit Jeremy was wearing. The tie alone could've paid for half of Martin's van. Combined with the gold watch, the silver cufflinks, the leather shoes, everything together must cost at least fifty thousand pounds.

Jeremy has lost a bit of hair, but it matched well with his chiseled jaw and grand, dazzling smile. His eyes were still predatory, and they were locked in on Martin, like an eagle to a field mouse.

Martin glanced uncertainly to Carolyn. She was rubbing her arm where Jeremy had elbowed her, and with a feverish 'go on!' hand wave, Martin swallowed and tried to be polite. "Y-yes... hello, Jeremy."

Jeremy threw his head back and laughed. It wasn't a friendly laugh, it was one of those obnoxious, forced laughs designed to make you feel self-conscious. "H-hello, M-M-M-Martin," Jeremy echoed back. Martin's cheeks burned. "H-H-How are y-y-y-you?"

Martin forced himself out of Jeremy's grip, stepped back, jaunted up his chin and said with as much authority he could muster, "As you can see, I'm the Captain of this airline. And I'll be the one flying you today."

"Mmmm, that's cute. Now where's the real captain?"

"Martin is the captain, sir," Carolyn interjected quickly. Even she was a little off-put by Jeremy's mocking. "He's perfectly capable."

"Yeah? We grew up with each other, so I think I know him better than you, miss."

Martin was shaking with rage, his fists curled by his side, trembling. He couldn't believe it. In twenty years, nothing has happened. There has been no change, no growth. It wouldn't have matter if Martin took Douglas' advice and reported Jeremy to the police, it would've been all for naught. Now here he was, richer than Martin could ever hope to be, still leering down at him like a squished bug.

No.

"I am not flying you today," Martin said.

Jeremy blinked. "What was that, Crieff? Speak up, I didn't hear that."

"I said, _I am not flying you_. I am the Captain of this vessel and I have determined you are a flight risk to the crew. I have made an authoritive command and I will follow through. Mr. Flunure, please leave before I have you escorted off the premises."

If anything, that shocked Jeremy into silence. Martin was not a sixteen year old kid anymore. He hasn't been for a long time. He was a grown man in a grown body and he didn't need to take Jeremy's crap anymore.

Jeremy cracked a smile. "You don't want to fly me? That's fine. I guess I just have to sue you and this blasted little airline for unlawful discrimination."

Just as Martin sucked in a chestful of air, the door to the office opened again. Arthur stuck his head in. "Hello, Martin! I was just wondering if Mr. Flunure is here."

Carolyn jabbed her thumb towards him.

"Ah, good. He's in here!" Arthur cried the last part out to someone outside. He stepped back, pushed the door opened fully, and suddenly three airport officers rushed in.

"Get down on the ground and put your hands on your head!"

They were carrying batons, pointing them threatening to Jeremy.

When he didn't comply fast enough, two of the officers stepped forward, grabbed him by the arms, and hauled him to the ground roughly, pressing a knee to his back to keep him from struggling.

"What's going on?" He cried out. They forcibly moved his arms behind his back to cuff him. "ARGH! Why are you doing this?"

"Jeremy Flunure, you're under arrest for smuggling cocaine in your luggage."

Carolyn and Martin stood back, clutching to each other, watching the events played out. They didn't even know they were doing it, too shocked by what was going on. Jeremy, yelling and screaming for a lawyer, was dragged out of the office.

He left a trail of piss behind.

"Hello, everyone," Douglas and Arthur walked in a few moments later. They deftly jumped over the pee, wrinkling their noses at it. "Oh my, we should clean that up as soon as possible."

Finally, Martin broke. "What the _hell_ was that? What the hell just _happened_?"

"I called airport security," Douglas said. "I gave them a tip about our new passenger, Mr. Flunure. And, surprise, surprise, looks like I was right. Not only does he have cocaine hidden in his luggage, but he also has a few outstanding warrants for him in America and Canada."

"What? How could you have possibly known that?"

Douglas opened his mouth to answer, grinning like the smug bastard he's always been, then stopped. He frowned, thought about it, and said, "I... I don't actually know," he chuckled, blinking in confusion. "Now that you've mentioned it. I saw his name on the roster and... I don't know, a sense of _deja vu'_ came over me."

"Or you're psychic," Carolyn huffed, finally pulling away from Martin. She straightened her ascot. "Good lord, we could've flown a criminal!"

"No, we wouldn't have," Douglas said, coming over and clapping a hand on Martin's shoulder. "I overheard you, you were acting all Captain-y, weren't you? Martin? Are you okay?"

Martin closed his eyes. So, he was wrong. His actions and his decisions did affect the universe in small ways. He just needed to look for it. On his right hand, Martin continued to wear his dad's old ring. He reached over and touched it, rubbing the garnet stone with his index finger. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying from bitter happiness.

He has never felt so old before in his life.


End file.
